Darren continued his Muhammad Ali dance for a few more seconds. He’s fucked now. Breathing heavily but in a controlled rhythm, Darren backed off.
Satisfied that the beaten biker wasn’t going to get up and have another go, Darren looked over to see how Johnno was faring. Johnno was sitting on the big biker’s chest and hammering his opponent’s face. Lars’ swollen face was a bloody mess. His eye-balls were rolling around in their sockets, like pin-balls. Johnno held on to the Viking’s brown-leather jacket and raised the Viking’s head for another barrage of punches.
“John! Hey, Johnno, he’s had enough, mate.” Darren shouted trying to catch his breath. “He’s fucked, let him go.”
Without a word Johnno let go of his opponent’s collar and the limp head fell to the ground. The bouncer got up; Lars was out to the count. Eddie was still kneeling and covering his face with blood dripping onto the concrete pavement below him.
Johnno retrieved the envelope with four thousand bucks from his back pocket and sauntered over to Eddie; the kneeling biker had not moved from his spot.
“Fucking waste of energy.” Johnno grunted as he threw the envelope on the ground in front of Eddie.
The sore and sorry man lifted his head to meet the bouncer’s eyes. The pain was too intense and he couldn’t say what he wanted to say, but he thought it. Your fucking time is coming, money or no money it makes no difference, because we’ll find you. You’re already dead.
CHAPTER 15
MARTIN, MICK AND BRAD
Life on the streets suited Martin. He loved the feeling of being free to do what he wanted. Life on the run was like having a continuous adrenaline drip keeping him on a high.
Following his adventure in Heathcote he wound up in Wollongong for a few weeks. He stole the rest of Rosie’s money from the drawer and used some of the two hundred and seventy odd dollars to stay in a backpackers lodge. He found some casual labouring work and decided to keep his head down for a couple of weeks. No stealing, no talking, just be cool.
After nearly three weeks of quietly biding his time, he was successful in finding someone interested in a handgun. A guy he met a few times at the pub showed promise as a prospective customer. He looked like a bikie, short and stocky with tats all over his arms and sporting plenty of bling on his ear-lobes, nose and fingers. Dark-brown, frizzy hair in a pony-tail. He wore blue-jeans, and a black shirt. A few times, Martin noticed he was wearing a worn brown, leather vest. No patches or colours. Martin only ever saw him wearing thongs, not boots, which struck him as odd for a bloke that pretended to be a biker.
“You’re up, mate,” the stocky pool-player challenged.
Martin snatched his coin from the edge of the table. “No worries, mate.”
As there were no other challengers, Martin and his new friend played several games of pool. Martin offered his opponent a beer after they finished playing four games. Martin lost all, but one of them.
“Lucky for you, I dropped the eight-ball, aye. Otherwise you’da lost every game, pal.” Martin’s opponent gloated.
“I’m a bit out of practice.” Martin replied, “Maybe we can play tomorrow. Let me shout you a beer. You here tomorrow night?”
“Sure thing. I’m always here.”
“So what’s your name?” Martin enquired.
“Dominic.”
“Mick.” Martin extended his hand and was delighted that his new friend was the same height as him. “What do you do for crust?”
“Not a lot. Dabble in some second-hand stuff. Tinker with bikes a bit.” Dominic replied cautiously. “Just cruisin’. Anyway I gotta go. Might catch up tomoz aye.”
Martin watched his new mate leave and finished his beer with a gulp.
The following evening back at the same pool table, the short and stocky pool-player sported a rather large black-eye. “So Dominic, did you have an argument with a door, mate?” Dominic spun around from facing the white ball on the green table. His eyes speared lightning bolts.
“Sorry, mate, didn’t mean to fuck up your game.” Martin raised his glass and put a coin on the pool-table’s edge. He nodded at Dominic, whose eyes were still seething.
An hour later, Martin listened to his friend relaying an incident involving a bitter dispute over a Harley repair job for a bikie and a girl who had jumped ship. Dominic’s ex-girl. Having been done over in more ways than one, Dominic wanted to settle a score. And Martin knew just how to help his new friend. He pitched his proposal.
“So, Mick, is this a hot gun?” Dominic asked very quietly.
“What do you mean, hot? As in stolen?” Martin gave a puzzled frown.
“Well, yeah,” Dominic replied.
“Nah, mate, it was my uncle’s. He used it for target practice. He gave it to me before he died. I just need some cash. It’s no good to me. I’m not much of a killer.” Martin laughed. Dominic didn’t.
“Hey Mick, settle down on the killin’ bit, will ya?” Dominic hissed.
“Just a joke, mate.”
“What sort is it again?”
“A .22 Ruger.” Martin answered quietly.
“How much?”
“Make me an offer.” Martin played the game.
“Three hundred tops, mate.”
“Give us three fifty, and I’ll throw in some ammo.” Martin liked bargaining.
“Three hundred, with the bullets. That’s it. In cash, tomorrow arvo.”
“Deal”. Martin was ecstatic. His first gun deal. He stretched out his hand over the pool table. His opponent reluctantly reciprocated, thinking What a strange little bloke, not even sure if he’s the full quid. Who cares, I scored a fucking pistol today. See how the bikie prick likes that.
Martin left the pub car-park as soon as he exchanged the Ruger with the carefully counted cash that Dominic had given him. “Yep. Okay, it’s all there. Remember, now, you didn’t get it from me.” Martin admonished his buyer.
“No worries, mate. Won’t tell a soul. Scout’s honour.” Dominic replied.
A short trip by bus ferried Martin to the train-station, where he waited another hour on the platform for his train to Bomaderry. After that, it was either a bus or hitch a ride to Ulladulla. Probably neither tonight. It was close to 11.30pm by the time his train rolled into Bomaderry.
Guess it’ll be a park bench. Martin yawned a few times. The park bench at Bomaderry Station seemed a particularly hard one. So he didn’t get a good night’s rest. Walking from six in the morning tired him out further. By mid-morning he had reached the South Nowra industrial area. He decided to hitch a ride south. Traffic was thick both ways.
A woman driver pulled up not far from him, in a sixty zone. Martin let her have a quick look over her prospective passenger before she told him to hop in. “Where you off to then?”
“Going south. Ulladulla, maybe.” Martin replied, as he plonked his back-pack on the rear seat.
“So where you come from then?” the bespectacled woman asked him.
“Sydney.” Martin answered carefully.
“Where in Sydney? You know, I come from Sydney originally. South-side though, don’t like the north side much. I lived in Hurstville, or actually more Beverly Hills. Used to work in warehouses. Sometimes in department stores too. Now I live in Fisherman’s Paradise.” She finally shut up. Martin wondered what he had walked into here.
“Got somewhere to stay in Ulladulla? I don’t know many people in Ulladulla. ” She prattled on, “You could stay at my place for a bit. While you are getting settled.”
Martin looked out the window away from her, without responding. Fuck does she ever shut up? Hmm. Stay at hers. Might be an idea. Have to see it first.
“How far is it from here?” he asked not having any idea about where Fisherman’s Paradise was.
“About another half an hour’s drive. I don’t like going too fast.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Martin said, as he looked at the speedo barely nudging seventy-five kilometres an hour.
“Got a job? If yo
u don’t, you can help me with the veggie garden. Lots of people in Fisho’s have veggie gardens, you know. Would you like to work doing odd jobs?” she asked.
“Yes. That would be good.” Martin just agreed with her.
“So what’s your name young man?” she enquired.
Looking through the passenger window to the left he saw a sign on a utility waiting to get on the highway that said, ‘Brad’s Mowing’.
“Me? I’m Brad. What’s yours?”
“Daphne”, she answered while she drove her car just under a steady eighty kilometres an hour, with a large convoy of cars trailing her on the Princes Highway.
The hitching adventure brought him to Fisherman’s Paradise, a little hamlet, off the Princes Highway, on the South Coast of NSW. Very few people had ever heard of it. Neither had Martin until Daphne turned left off the highway. Martin even missed seeing the road sign.
“So why is it called Fisherman’s Paradise, is the fishing good here?” Martin was curious and excited. “Can’t see any water,” He commented while Daphne drove her little car on the two-kilometre stretch of road from the highway to the village.
“Oh, I don’t know really, I don’t think the fishing is all that good. Maybe, it’s just a nice place to go fishing. It’s a quiet little place and most of us that live here like the quiet. Although, of late, there’s been more new houses being built and lots more bloody kids running amok.” Daphne explained clearly showing her displeasure with those developments.
“So where is the water? I can’t see any.” Martin was sitting up like a toddler anticipating to see Santa Claus. He wasn’t used to seeing rolling hills with green paddocks and stands of gumtrees so close to where people lived. Not one to be excited about nature, nevertheless, he relished the fresh smell of the outdoors. “Smells like wet grass here.”
“Mixed with a bit of cow poo. That’s what you’re smelling.” Daphne clarified.
“There’s a boat-ramp and the lake just down the end of this road.” She indicated right at the village junction and turned into Cornfield Parade. She pressed the go-pedal down a bit harder to get up the hill. Halfway up she pulled into a rough, gravel driveway and brought the car to a stop. “Here we are, my house. Look. See. You can just make out the creek down there, through the trees. Grab your things, may as well bring ’m inside.” She waddled to the front door of the weatherboard cottage which was painted a drab mustard colour. Martin now noticed that she was overweight and older than her face showed.
Before she had a chance to open the front door, Martin heard someone calling out from over the road. “Daphne!” A lean, older man came rushing over. His thin and grey hair was tussled over a balding head. The silver rimmed spectacles were not sitting level on his nose. “Your cat’s killed one of my birds this morning,” he said angrily.
“Oh, hi Brian, this is Brad. He’s coming to stay a while.” Daphne said, ignoring Brian’s complaint.
“Your cat’s killed another one of my birds,” Brian repeated.
“Yes, Brian, I heard you the first time. And they are not really your birds are they, Brian? I’ll try to keep her in next time.” She tried to appease her upset neighbour. Quickly changing the subject, “Brian’s our postie, you know. You can give him your name, and your mail can be delivered here. Isn’t that right, Brian?”
Martin appraised the excitable postie. What a fucking idiot going all stupid over a dead bird. He nodded his head politely, but Brian ignored him. His face was reddening from the rush of telling his neighbour off and his anger that she had completely dismissed his claim.
Martin didn’t care about the mail; he doubted he would ever get mail. A birth certificate was probably the only official document identifying his existence. That document was located very deep in a file archived in some dark storage area. Whereabouts unknown. The only person that knew he had been born, well, she was now dead. Except for his cousin, Matt, living somewhere on the South Coast.
CHAPTER 16
BLOOD IS THICKER THAN…
Finding his cousin Matt took a week. After spending a few evenings at the Marlin Hotel in Ulladulla, Martin was sure that if Matt was indeed in the area someone would know him or of him. Martin was cunning, and eavesdropping pub talk was a skill he acquired as a street kid. Having the same surname simplified things, but it wasn’t something he wanted to pass around, so Martin kept it simple, “Yeah me cousin Matt lives here, hoping to hook up with him. Seen him around? Matt Villier. You might have come across him.” Without pressing too hard Martin accepted the shrugs and the ‘nah-mate-never-heard-of-him’ replies.
Finally, on the third outing to the Marlin, he struck lucky, “Sounds like you are talking about Villo. Yeah, I know Villo, he comes in here on Fridays usually, after six o’clock, when he’s not driving a truck or fishing. Sometimes he’s out on the boats.” The man took a drink from his schooner after answering Martin’s enquiry.
“So who wants to know, anyway, not that it really matters, I guess. Don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” the thin, wiry bloke remarked with a shrug.
“An old cousin from Sydney.” Martin lied.
“Funny, you don’t look too old.” The bloke inspected Martin briefly and turned away to join his mates. Martin’s eyes followed the wiry drinker. Fucking smart arse. With a bit of luck I will find Matt in here tomorrow. Wonder what he’s like these days.
By ten o’clock on a Friday night the pub was packed and pumping. The smoke from five hundred cigarettes hung around in a blue and grey haze. Over the pool table it was hopelessly misty. No one gave a fuck, because everyone was either pissed and smoking, or pissed and just lighting up. Despite Martin’s eyes feeling like they were on fire from the smoke, he was enjoying himself and wasn’t holding back on the schooners. There was still no sign of Matt, but Martin had not given up hope. Think I’ll have another before bailing. By 10.30, he was feeling pretty good, but debating whether to stay or leave. He had to get a ride back to Fisherman’s Paradise somehow or face a two hour walk along a pitch-black highway.
Without any warning, someone slapped hard on his back and sent him forward, spilling his beer. Enraged, Martin spun around. His black eyes were wild and his lips and face were contorted angrily. In front of him was a fat bloke with piercing eyes, except a lot lighter in colour than hi, having a belly-laugh and slapping his legs. The beer he was holding in his left hand went everywhere.
“Martin, you little scrawny prick!” and he continued laughing. But Martin wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t prepared for ridicule, including from his cousin. Instinctively, Martin lunged at the larger Matt, but his cousin caught his arm and held it firmly. Martin felt his cousin’s strength. A very persuasive hold that said, better think twice.
“Now, settle down, little cousin. No harm intended here, but if you want make an issue then go ahead, give it your best.” While holding Martin’s arm in a tight grip Matt’s eyes locked onto Martin. After a brief stand-off, Martin swore,” Fuck, you scared the piss outta me.”
“Sorry, but I had to….” Matt broke out laughing again. This time Martin decided to join in, reluctantly. Before long he’d forgotten all about being taunted. Like a pair of long, lost brothers they drank and exchanged stories. But nothing was mentioned about handguns, a little red-headed chick that worked at Macca’s, or Tony the concreter.
Martin woke up on a lounge with a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. It felt warm and comfortable, wherever he was. It was well and truly daylight outside, and he covered his head with the pillow to stop the glare coming from the window. He had trouble remembering last night’s events after running into Matt. Not being a big drinker must have pushed him towards being blacked-out. Must be Matt’s place. He could hear heavy snoring coming from a room. Fat bloke snoring. Martin’s head was pounding. And soon he was fast asleep again.
The smell of bacon cooking on a BBQ; pure hang-over pornography. Both men were staring the bacon to death as it sizzled on the hot plate. The wafting aroma and crackling
sounds was sending them into a trance.
“Can’t wait to eat.” Martin gawked at the hot plate, his fingers hovering near the edge of the steel hotplate, hoping for the chance to pinch some bacon. Matt was watching in readiness to slap any wandering hand with the spatula. Finally, Matt had enough, and ordered his cousin, “Hang on there, boy, there’s eggs to go on yet, and bacon needs to be crispy. I like mine crispy. Go inside and sort out some toast or something. You look like you’re about to jump on the plate, for fuck sake.”
Martin complied and happily went to find the toaster and bread. Twenty minutes later they sat at the breakfast bar, devouring bacon, eggs, toast and fried tomatoes. It was the best breakfast Martin had eaten in years. Home-cooked bacon and eggs on a BBQ, now that was a treat.
“So, cousin, what brings you down here?” Matt questioned with a muffled voice while chewing on a mouthful. “Haven’t heard shit from you since God knows how many years?” Matt looked up and gazed at Martin who seemed completely absorbed in the food. Although only a few months younger than him, Martin’s appearance was somewhere between a snot-nosed teenager and a street crim. Matt had always regarded him as a kid brother when they were younger. He remembered how Martin used to chuck a willie when he clipped him around the ears for being a dill. Despite a few shortcomings Matt regarded his younger cousin as very close family; and therefore, deserving of his guidance, brotherly love and protection.
“You got any work?” Matt enquired, while sponging up the last egg yolk and bacon drippings with a piece of drenched toast.
“Not yet. Only just got here, and been looking for you.” Martin just finished his breakfast leaving only a faint trail of grease on his plate.
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